“If you’re going to lie to me again, don’t bother.”
A muscle worked in Sieh’s jaw; he glanced at his siblings. “It’s true, Yeine. We aren’t certain. But… for some reason… Enefa’s soul has not healed as much as we hoped it would in the time since we put it in you. It’s whole,” and here he glanced at Kurue significantly. “Enough to serve its purpose. But it’s very fragile—too fragile to be drawn out safely.”
Safely for the soul, he meant, not for me. I shook my head, too tired to laugh.
“No telling how much damage has been done,” Kurue muttered, turning away to pace the room’s small confines.
“An unused limb withers,” Zhakkarn said softly. “She had her own soul, and no need for another.”
Which I would happily have told you, I thought sourly, if I’d been able to protest at the time.
But what in the Maelstrom did all this mean for me? That the Enefadeh would make no further attempt to draw the soul from my body? Good, since I had no desire to experience that pain ever again. But it also meant that they were committed to their plan now, because they couldn’t get the thing out of me otherwise.
Was that, then, why I had all these strange dreams and visions? Because a goddess’s soul had begun to rot inside me?
Demons and darkness. Like a compass needle seeking north, I swung back around to look at Nahadoth. He turned away.
“What did you say earlier?” Kurue suddenly demanded. “About Dekarta.”
That particular concern seemed a million miles away. I pulled myself back to it, the here and now, and tried to push from my mind that terrible sky and the image of shining hands gripping and twisting flesh.
“Dekarta is throwing a ball in my honor,” I replied, “in one week. To celebrate my designation as one of the possible heirs.” I shook my head. “Who knows? Maybe it’s just a ball.”
The Enefadeh looked at each other.
“So soon,” murmured Sieh, frowning. “I had no idea he would do it this soon.”
Kurue nodded to herself. “Canny old bastard. He’ll probably have the ceremony at dawn the morning after.”
“Could this mean he’s discovered what we’ve done?” asked Zhakkarn.
“No,” Kurue said, looking at me, “or she’d be dead and the soul would already be in Itempas’s hands.”
I shuddered at the thought and finally pushed myself to my feet. I did not turn to Nahadoth again.
“Are you done being angry with me?” I asked, brushing wrinkles out of my skirt. “I think we have unfinished business.”
16. Sar-enna-nem
The priests do mention the Gods’ War sometimes, mainly as a warning against heresy. Because of Enefa, they say. Because of the Betrayer, for three days people and animals lay helpless and gasping for air, hearts gradually slowing and bellies bloating as their bowels ceased to function. Plants wilted and died in hours; vast fertile plains turned to gray desert. Meanwhile the sea we now call Repentance boiled, and for some reason all the tallest mountains were split in half. The priests say that was the work of the godlings, Enefa’s immortal offspring, who each took sides and battled across the earth. Their fathers, the lords of the sky, mostly kept their fight up there.
Because of Enefa, the priests say. They do not say, because Itempas killed her.
When the war finally ended, most of the world was dead. What remained was forever changed. In my land, hunters pass down legends of beasts that no longer exist; harvest songs praise staples long lost. Those first Arameri did a great deal for the survivors, the priests are careful to note. With the magic of their war-prisoner gods they replenished the oceans, sealed the mountains, healed the land. Though there was nothing to be done for the dead, they saved as many as they could of the survivors.
For a price.
The priests don’t mention that, either.
There had in fact been very little business to discuss. In light of the looming ceremony, the Enefadeh needed my cooperation more than ever, and so—with palpable annoyance—Kurue agreed to my condition. We all knew there was little chance I could become Dekarta’s heir. We all knew the Enefadeh were merely humoring me. I was content with that, so long as I did not think about it too deeply.
Then one by one they vanished, leaving me with Nahadoth. He was the only one, Kurue had said, who had the power to carry me to and from Darr in the night’s few remaining hours. So in the silence that fell, I turned to face the Nightlord.
“How?” he asked. The vision, he meant, of his defeat.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s happened before. I had a dream once, of the old Sky. I saw you destroy it.” I swallowed, chilled. “I thought it was just a dream, but if what I just saw is what really happened…” Memories. I was experiencing Enefa’s memories. Dearest Skyfather, I did not want to think about what that meant.
His eyes narrowed. He wore that face again—the one I feared because I could not help wanting it. I fixed my eyes on a point just above his shoulder.
“It is what happened,” he said slowly. “But Enefa was dead by then. She never saw what he did to me.”
And I wish I hadn’t. But before I could speak, Nahadoth took a step toward me. I very quickly took a step back, and he stopped.
“You fear me now?”
“You did try to rip out my soul.”
“And yet you still desire me.”
I froze. Of course he would have sensed that. I said nothing, unwilling to admit weakness.
Nahadoth moved past me to the window. I shivered as he passed; a tendril of his cloak had curled ’round my calf for just an instant in a cool caress. I wondered if he was even aware of this.
“What exactly do you hope to accomplish in Darr?” he asked.
I swallowed, glad to be on another subject. “I need to speak with my grandmother. I thought of using a sigil sphere, but I don’t understand such things. There could be a way for others to eavesdrop on our conversation.”
“There is.”
It gave me no pleasure to be right. “Then the questions must be asked in person.”
“What questions?”
“Whether it’s true what Ras Onchi and Scimina said, about Darr’s neighbors arming for war. I want to hear my grandmother’s assessment of the situation. And… I hope to learn…” I felt inexplicably ashamed. “More about my mother. Whether she was like the rest of the Arameri.”
“I have told you already: she was.”
“You will forgive me, Lord Nahadoth, if I do not trust you.”
He turned slightly, so that I could see the side of his smile. “She was,” he repeated, “and so are you.”
The words, in his cold voice, hit me like a slap.
“She did this, too,” he continued. “She was your age, perhaps younger, when she began asking questions, questions, so many questions. When she could not get answers from us with politeness, she commanded them—as you have done. Such hate there was in her young heart. Like yours.”
I fought the urge to swallow, certain he would hear it.
“What sort of questions?”
“Arameri history. The war between my siblings and I. Many things.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t care.”
I took a deep breath and forced my sweaty fists to unclench. This was his way, I reminded myself. There had been no need for him to say anything about my mother; he just knew it was the way to unsettle me. I had been warned. Nahadoth didn’t like to kill outright. He teased and tickled until you lost control, forgot the danger, and opened yourself to him. He made you ask for it.